


Calloused hands and tender hearts

by AidenFeliCane



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst, Dark Past, Drama, Historical Inaccuracy, Murder, Other, Past Relationship(s), Regret
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-12
Updated: 2021-01-12
Packaged: 2021-03-17 04:40:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28718988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AidenFeliCane/pseuds/AidenFeliCane
Summary: England thinks about his past with France and America over a glass of wine. He cries over it.
Relationships: England & France (Hetalia)
Kudos: 2





	Calloused hands and tender hearts

> “ _Never look back, Lawrence, never look back. The past is a wilderness of horrors_ ” -Mr Talbot, The wolfman (Movie). 2010

America was built on blood, it was the only way it could be, England always knew. For the new country to grow and become the power he had become, blood had to be spilled and bodys to be accumulated. At first it was a diverse and strong land that they had discovered, it was amazing how strong it was even if it was wild, crude and brute. This new land of savages that they wished to conquer had a strength that most of these countries had only achieved after years over years of war, but its foundation was so weak that it couldn’t stand on his own, or so he had thought when he first saw the child.

The fire in the chimney crackles and stirs as he helps a glass of wine. His hand is cold as he picks it up and turns the glass over his lips, slow and graceful movements as he drinks. He isn’t yet that drunk to start losing his usual well studied manners.

Every motion of his is slow and practiced, like the steps he would lead on a dance, only that they come with a little scorn from his part as it has been decades since all of this became obsolete. England can’t help it though, the force of the habit is what made him this way, gladly, he is not the only one still attached to old customs and mannerisms, he is well aware of Denmark’s old axe still sitting around his house entrance, recently sharpened and at the ready. There’s also that pipe that Russia likes to hide inside his coat, Germany’s odd militar like manners and Poland and Prussia’s constant religious services. 

The lot of them are a bunch of pitiful old bastards he concludes.

His eyes are fixed in the fire as it dances over the logs, somehow, it brings him back to the old times, the part of their history when Finland guided them to find that child alone in the middle of the wild land. After which he gambled life and limb to chase France away and be able to transform that child into his little brother.

Even as fire seems so far away from how they found America, the dance that it makes reminds him of the dance of the grass on that day. The gentle warm breeze as he embraced the foreng feeling of affection over America. England’s memories always seem warm, but he knows better than anyone else that those memories are tainted, they’re but a mere glimpse of what really happened. America’s foundation is over blood and corpses, just like everyone else’s.

England was so strong back then, and France was both feeble and naive so it was an easy win for him. Victory wasn’t just achieved in a battlefield though, it happened also in America’s own choice of allowing England to take him in. Even so, his victory against the oldest of his foes and the winning of affection from the child wasn’t the end of the battle, there was still blood to be spilled before being able to take America and transform him into his little brother, England had yet to take care of the brutal force that was his mother.

His eyes trail off from the fire and he exhales, nothing better than reopening old wounds he thinks. Doing his best to forget about his early train of thought, he steals another gulp of wine and finishes his glass.

As he holds the glass, the nozzle of the bottle is put against the border while France refills it for him. England merely looks at him and then goes back to staring at the fire. He might as well finish his travel to the past now that it started “ _ Angleterre _ ” Interrupts France while taking a seat, a knowing smile on his face as he fills his own glass “ _ Tu es songeuse. À quoi penses-tu? _ ” England much prefers to keep his guilt for himself, so he doesn’t plan on answering France for a moment, but then, that would make the french man more curious and could end in them drunk fighting later.

He denies with his head “ _ Ce n'est rien, vraiment. _ ” His words of reassurement feel strange in his tongue, maybe it is because he has to say them in French, maybe it is because not even him believes them. France nods at this and takes a sip of his glass, finishing their short conversation as he goes into his own thoughts and worries, a little disappointed in his old friend’s reluctance to speak. “Just about that stupid wanker, America” He finishes, taking refuge on his own language as he is more than sure that France won’t be able to understand what he said.

France chuckling proves his guess wrong, he turns to the man as he speaks again “ _ Pensez-y bien, mais ne pensez pas trop longtemps _ ” He gives him a sympathetic smile as he drinks his wine, almost sure about what England is thinking, they had been together for long enough, and had licked each others wounds as many times as that time allowed them, to know what was it that hurted the other the most.

"Stupid" States England to go back into the friendly silence that's been sustained all evening. They remain sitting beside each other like friends for a couple more hours. Sometimes it was better that way, just sit around the fire like a pair of good old friends and share some time. They had to do it as friends, not enemies at peace or lovers, just friends. The love had died long ago, sadly.

Such love died in the hands of the same England and it died with that girl, Joan D’arc. After her they were only either friends or enemies.

It seemed quite interesting for England how the influence of Joan had changed France, it had destroyed him in his eyes, but in the eyes of France she had only given him back that that most nations never wanted to have. Humanity. Fear of immortality.

No one was immortal, nations died too. How and when they did it was the thing they were mainly scared off. What would happen if they died when their people were left in the dark and they were the only ones to guide them along? It was, one of the scariest thoughts any of them had, but it wasn’t the worst, the destiny of dying seemed always far more relaxing than the other way, which was never dying. They were scared of living amongst the world, never able to establish relationships, always alone and full of memories of better times.

The nations feared their immortality more than anything as it could break them. The first coming to his mind was Italy, the loss of his young lover and grandfather at such a young age had made the boy into the strange persona he was today. England couldn’t give him much of a place but that of a burden, although France always seemed to want to go soft on him. France was the other nation he thought of when it came to grief, he lost Joan and there was nothing else to say about that. The man was an emotional train of gloom when it came to that. Nonetheless because he was the ‘country of love’, he tended to be emotional and all.

England bit his nail, he couldn’t say he was a hundred percent stable himself, he had also lost so many people and friends along the way and had cried for them in their respective time. The same happened for the ones that weren’t dead and were still alive, for example America and the rest of his colonies. The emptiness born of their abandon to him was fresh no matter the years.

No blame was put on them, they were right to leave when given an opportunity. England had wronged them so much that he held no right to. He had been a fool and it took him too many years to understand how he had drained them. England gave them what he thought was right and all the same took what was important.

A sigh is let out as he thinks back to America, what he did to him, it was unforgivable.

The memory plays in his mind and he tries to push it back, but it’s impossible to do, the wine takes a toll on him even if he has drank too little. England finds himself once again in the middle of the field where America lifted up a bison, the air is warm and the still long grass dances with the wind. She's in between the trees, finally leaving her hiding spot. Her skin, a rare colour he defines between reddish or brown, is painted on several places with white vegetal paint, her long raven hair is decorated with braids and feathers of eagle and her brown luminous eyes look at him with such loathing that makes him shiver on the spot. The gleam of hate and distrust shines clear as day in her. She was America's mother.

England stood in that field unmoving, almost feeling like a deer in the headlights as she studied him. He didn't know what to do, he knew who she was and that made it worse. So they just stood there, like a prey looking into the eyes of a predator right before it pounced, and that is what it was. 

He was strong at that time of course, with Queen Elizabeth’s memory and James I as his regent unifying him and two of his brothers, his strength was not to be put in doubt, but his national pride couldn't be compared to the strength and cleverness behind this land of wilderness. This woman could tore him down, as if England was a wolf but she was a bear. And England had just messed with her cub.

Back then he had tried to speak to her, make clear his plan of taking America as his brother, but as fast as she had appeared she was gone. England was left with his diplomacy and a clear warning on her part. This never stopped him, he kept his attempts until he managed to establish his first colony.

She must have known that this was her unspoken sentence, because she came to him to speak.

As always, she was the one appearing in front of him, serene and confident. Her eyes still spoke of despise, but in them there was also something more, the dullness of surrender and resignation clouded the once shining brown eyes.

The recalling of the event that followed their encounter makes his eyes sting and a knot form in his throat. She ordered him, a power drunk young England, to leave along the rest of the countries from across the sea. Leave her and the rest of the american nations alone to their own lives, she included small America.

With shame, England feels his eyes get wet, conscious of the story written after her plea. He threw himself at her, his conquering pride exuding from every pore in his body, he wanted to harm her, beat and leave her to die in the loneliness of the forest. Yet, she was so strong, fast, a powerful being born and raised in the brutal wilderness. England was impressed by her resistance and her streng so he started respecting her. Nonetheless he pushed her, pushed and pushed with no stopping. He took then, kept taking from her until she was weak enough to be defeated. When he had her there, wounded and defeated, he killed her.

Destroyed the girl so she couldn't come back for America.

The last moments of life of that girl were spent looking at the sky, the dancing tree tops and a bird. Lying peacefully on the ground, she thought of America at last, regretting not being able to stay with him for much longer. Yet she smiled happily aware that America would live on but only God knew for how long.

England dries his tears, clears his throat and is back to his normal self after a couple more glasses of wine. France is still by his side, calmly humming an old lullaby that his grandmother used to sing. Both remain trapped in their past, the shadow of regret over their shoulders and a dead love in between them. 

He stirs on his seat, and so slow and low, he speaks “ _ Tu sais, j'ai fait des choses. _ ” France looks at him, fun on a face that says ‘ _ Haven’t we all? _ ’ but before he can laugh more on his moment of honesty, he continues “Horrible, terrible things, Francis” He doesn't bring himself to apologize, no, it is not necessary “ _ Vous aussi _ ”

France stares him dead in the eye, the shadows created by the fire enmark his beautiful face and his eyes shine with something that’s both sorrowful and dangerous. It arouses him. “ _ C'est la vie, mon cher. _ ” He finishes half joking half serious. England has no more words and smirks his way, something good might come out of his dramatical outburst.

More wine is served, England is finally getting drunk enough. He speaks to the air not paying attention to France’s eyes traveling him “All of us had been it, the empire and the tyran.” He barks a laugh “Empires of dust!” Free from his manners, he lifts the bottle and almost gulps down the whole thing. The night is still young.

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to write a drunk England being repent of like, existing, but then I had half a one-shot about Native america so I kind of fused those two together and here we are :D
> 
> Translates:
> 
> Tu es songeuse. À quoi penses-tu? = You're so pensive, what are you thinking about?  
> Ce n'est rien, vraiment = It's nothing really.  
> Pensez-y bien, mais ne pensez pas trop longtemps = Think about it, but don’t think too long  
> Tu sais, j'ai fait des choses = You know I've done things.  
> Vous aussi = You too  
> C'est la vie, mon cher =That's life, my dear.


End file.
